The Ninth Survivor
by Konstantinsen
Summary: Just as the sun dawns over the Port at Rayford, Georgia, the three remaining survivors of the night encounter a scavenger whose shady history baffles them.
1. Chapter 1

Footsteps echoed softly across the street. The soles of combat fatigues clattered with the bricks of the sidewalk. The man who whose feet were in them strode to an empty bar. The windows were shattered, the shelves were nearly empty, and the jukebox appeared to have taken in a handful of bullets. A duo of corpses lay beside it; one headless, the other without a torso.

_Poor sods._ He slowly set his feet onto the shards of glass that scattered across the floor. It still dark and the fluorescent lamps were flickering with whatever energy that was circulating through the wires.

Bottles, empty or broken, were shoved aside. The rifle rode his arm and slid onto his back. It didn't take a minute for an in-tact, half-filled bottle of alcohol to be salvaged from the confines of the bar and placed carefully into a small travel bag.

This process was repeated in many other establishments with the bag gaining weight from liquor to ammunition to medical supplies. His feet throbbed but he ignored them. He was used to it. By dawn, he found himself standing in front of a bridge that seemed to have been heavily fought over.

Remains of the Infected painted the scene in a mesh of blood and gore. There were markings of a vicious battle. And he interpreted that easily as that of one of his own.

Fresh rubber tracks lined the road and faded along the bridge right near where a nearly mangled hit-and-run victim lay. He was about to step forward when he saw that the skin was pale. _Infected._ He turned and noticed the generator sitting on the front yard of a bricked-up establishment. There was a bulk lying next to it. _That must be where the levers are. Explains all the gas gallons lying around. They were really desperate to get out of here._ The flies were still recent. _And to think this all happened last night. Damn, missed all the fun._ And some company.

Despite his urge to be a part of a group, his instincts declared a personal law of solidarity where no one was allowed to interfere with his affairs regardless of how he much help he needed. When he was pounced on by a hooded vampire in the alleyway; when he was snagged and dangled ten feet off the ground while being suffocated by some creep's enormously elongated tongue; when he was puked upon by a bloated son of a bitch and had to fight off the smell and an army of Infected sons of bitches; when he was nearly boiled to a crisp by some pregnant bitch; when he was ridden by an overexcited pervert; when he nearly had his rips crushed by a some Infected foot ball player with an enormously large hand; when he was nearly raped by a crying emaciated wraith; when he was nearly flattened by the Hulk's cousins—all of those, he survived without any outside help whatsoever. What saved him were the instincts he longed to lose but valued for his survival. _I can hold out on my own. Yes, you can. And you will._

_ No, you can't! Look at you. Do you think an overused Russian assault rifle is going to save your ass from an army of those creeps?_

_ Hey, I survived ten. I can mana—_

_ You can't manage a damn business. How can you manage your own ass! You're a wreck! Just like everyone else._

_ Listen, jackass! Haven't I reminded of all the SHIT I've been through? Huh? Have I reminded you of all the sons of bitches that I killed—even with my bare hands, goddamnit—way before all this bullshit hit the fan?_

_ You did. But you're starting to become too cocky. You're way over your head, now._

_ And so are you. Shut up and let me drive._

He thought he had silenced his conscience long ago. But it returned with a microphone strapped to its mouth once the Infection hit him in the face. And it was just these arguments that made him want to jump off a cliff.

Snapping out of his sightless gaze, he noticed that glints flashing in the corners of his eyes. He approached one and picked it up. Lead shells. Discharged recently. They were too clean. Beyond that were shards of a glass bottle and a burnt up roll of cloth. _Molotovs._ Ashes and debris made it clear as to how it all went down. He looked back at the generator and then the road beyond the bridge.

_Bunch of guys find a bridge but its raised. To get it down, they try the generator. Runs out of gas so they start salvaging some. When they get it back on, it works but the sound of the whole thing sliding down calls in the cavalry. Things get messy and its every man for himself._ But instead of a gruesome ending, it appeared as though they all survived and took off before they were overrun. _Not quite._

What appeared to be a pile covered with tarpaulin turned out to be one of the Hulk-like behemoths that he'd encountered in on his journey. The morning sun's rays shone across its leathery skin before revealing the dark strands of dried blood running down to the ground. He saw several holes where the lead penetrated. And then, when he circled around it, found blacked areas especially around the head. _Nearly burned to a crisp… helped a lot in putting this son of a bitch down._

Then he noticed a trail of blood leading into one of the buildings that operated the bridge. The sun was already at an angle were an orange tint lined his figure across the tiled floor. He followed the trail further up until his eyes could visibly see its source—a fresh corpse.

He approached it and crouched in front of it, eyes examining this somewhat rare find.

The body leaned against one of the wheels that drove the bridge's mechanics. He wasn't at all astonished with its "neatness" and immediately knew that this person was immune. Bite marks and bulges marred his exposed arms and a mark of where the killing was delivered stared at him from his battered chest. What made his brow raise was the fact that he wore combat fatigues as well as standard issue military uniform. _'Nam vet._ He ran his hand around the stiff limbs and drew them back to rub his chin. He noted the half-burnt cigarette that sat on the vet's thigh. _To think he survived long enough until now. Almost cremated himself even._

He sighed. He glanced at the M16 that were in lifeless arms and noted empty clips and shells scattered all around him. _Survived long enough. Fought to the death… like the hardcore bastard he looks to be._ And there was no doubt about it.

The man bowed his head in late reverence to the uninfected dead.

"Guess you didn't make it, did you?" he told the body in a low voice as if it was unconsciously listening. "Decided to take 'em all so the others could escape." He tapped the corpse on the shoulder. _Something I wish I could do not only for myself._

Then he heard the click of a gun behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

A ball of light encircled him and he saw his own shadow painted sharply against the wheel. The barrel of the rifle jutted from over his shoulder. _Survivor._

He stood up and his form followed.

"Fine day, isn't it?" he coldly greeted.

The light quickly left his posture. "I'm sorry," a woman's voice rung out, "I thought you were Infected."

He turned around. She stood there by the door. The light of the rising sun shone through her figure, lining it with its halo and shrouding her frontal appearance. The light from her pistol beamed downward onto the floor.

"I'm not," he replied moving aside. "And so is he."

She showed her light on the body. And slowly fell into devastation. He heard her voice crack and her hands tremble.

"Oh, God!" she whimpered, "Bill…"

She slowly walked towards it, struggling to hold back tears. But by the time she was kneeling over the cadaver, she broke down. The pistol dropped to the floor. She wept softly.

He watched her mourn, looming over her crouched figure. He sighed. He was glad there wasn't a hint of suspicion that he was involved in the death of this 'Nam vet. At least, not yet.

_Condolences._ Out of instinct, he approached her and let his hand rest on her shoulder. His palm rubbed it to make her feel better. But she kept on crying, uttering the dead man's name over and over again.

"You didn't have to do this," she went on sobbing, "why did you do it… why'd you leave us all behind… why…"

It surprised him that he actually spoke to ease the pain. "He did it because he knew that you'd be helping to end this soon." She let out a soft laugh as though she were amused sniffing and sniveling. _What the fuck? What the hell was that?_ He was astonished and a bit mad at himself for not thinking about his words despite her positive reaction to them. He wanted to punch himself for it.

It wasn't like him to do that. He knew himself as being cruel and cold. But this soft side suddenly jumped out and started steering.

"Zoey!"

It was a gruff voice and it came from outside. He looked behind him.

"I'm in here," she called with a bit of control.

"Zoey," the voice came back again. There were footsteps and eventually, a bulky frame emerged from the doorway. He came inside and saw them both. Then his gaze went to Zoey as she told him, "It's Bill."

"Jesus, he alright? Is there still a pulse?" he quickly paced towards her and suddenly froze as he saw the body. Bowing low, he whispered curses before turning around.

"Francis," she puled, "he's gone…"

Francis upped the volume of his continuous cursing. Then he looked behind him towards the man who carried the travel bag. Their eyes met.

"I hate…" he started then paused seemingly trying to clear the lump that formed in his throat. "… this."

At that, the biker approached his female companion and let his hand rest on her shoulder. She fell on her knees and leaned against her companion. The two embraced. He held her in his arms as she buried her head in his chest and mewled. The biker did whatever he knew to make her feel any better; rubbing her pack, assuring her that it's alright, trying hard to mask the sadness in his voice.

He watched the two. _Sorry for your loss._ It was rare for him to say such to people who lost somebody even though they didn't know each other much. It wasn't like him to feel sympathy and pity in cases like these. _Your loss._

"I'm sorry," he pardoned although it was clear they ignored him, "for your loss..."

_Loss._ That word echoed loudly in his head. _Loss._ It resounded like a massive gong trying to wake something up inside him. _Loss._ He forgot it before but it was coming back. And he remembered that it was a disturbing thought that tortured him immensely. Then the memories locked away in the basement of his soul burst forth in a daydream while he stared senselessly at Zoey and Francis as they held each other.

* * *

><p>In a ramshackle in Hungary, a small boy squeezed himself into a corner in the dim light of the oil lamp. Tears ran down his wrinkled face as he tried to cover his ears. He tried to shut his eyes but couldn't help but open them again to watch the ugly scenery that unraveled before him. It's happening again. Like it always does whenever daddy came home drunk and in a bad mood.<p>

Tonight, it was becoming much worse than the other tirades he threw against them. He hit him hard marking the spot where the heavy fist struck with a discoloration of black and blue. He was lucky enough to crawl away and sneak to the side while mother took the next blows. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted his father to stop it. He wanted him to go somewhere else. He wanted him to shut up. He wanted him to get hurt. He wanted him to die. It was the first time he ever thought of such a thing.

Whenever a blow landed on him, he would pile it up on top of the heap of unjust beatings that chorused its hunger for redemption. Like a volcano that lay dormant for years, the silence that he embraced echoed a warning of an imminent eruption. But it wouldn't come now. No, he was sure it wouldn't. Instead, he would have to wait for the right time—when he would be older and stronger—before he would give the old brute a taste of his own medicine.

Sometimes, he never understood why daddy would do such things. He even wondered if he ever felt the pain that he was giving them. He seemed unfazed by the emotions mommy was giving out. She was mostly sad but strong enough to face him.

However, at this particular evening, her tolerance couldn't bear any more. She took in around ten blows before being dragged and embraced tightly by the drunk that was the family patriarch. Her body couldn't take any more strain. Blood was beginning to ooze out of the open wounds.

He yelled at her as she squealed. She squirmed in his grasp but he tightened his grip. She was beginning to have trouble breathing; her hands tried desperately to gain some space. Again, she succumbed to his hold. She continued to sob in pain. Whether it was physical or emotional—probably both—she wanted him to let go and leave their only son in peace. He heard her cry out for him, for his sake. He was just a little boy. He needed a loving father who would teach him to be a man in a proper way, not like an animal that needed a leash with a whip.

This plea only angered the old man as he threw her across the room. He watched helplessly, lamenting soflty, as his mother landed on her back howling in agony. Her husband continued his abuse. Ignoring the sobs of his wife that would eternally haunt their young son, he picked her up and gave his son the show of his life.

That night was the worst of all. By the time he was finished with her, blood pooling around her motionless form, he unleashed a storm against the inanimate objects of the house.

The little boy wished he would not be seen by this monster. He cuddled up some more in the corner. Then his heart stopped. The cracked eyes of his father met his. Wet, sweating, and releasing urine, he braced himself for the inevitable. The old man reached out his bloody hand towards him. He felt the damp palm grip his shirt.

* * *

><p><em>Shit. <em>He snapped back to reality feeling a hand touched his shoulder.

He looked at Francis. Zoey had gone outside to regain her composure.

"You in a daze or something?" he asked.

"Just remembered something."

The biker bowed. "I guess you lost someone too."

His eyes met his. Francis saw something in those pupils that chilled him. "You have no idea."


	3. Chapter 3

"Jobnik," the officer muttered dropping the stack of papers on top of his desk.

The Hungarian grunted as he sifted through the folder; lazily going through them. The typewriter in front of him glared back at his face, hungry for more clicks. He rolled in the first sheet and adjusted the margins.

As much as he hated his job and wanted to be out on the real action, he had no other choice but to keep up his desk work or else a possible chance at the battlefield would fly away.

Israel had its frequent wars with its neighbors. And it offered daily training sessions beyond enemy lines. The reason he joined the Jewish forces was because he wanted to learn their way of survival in a world that loathed them since the beginning of their existence. In a seemingly endless conflict that spanned over three millennia, there was the logic that the mistakes of their enemies weren't overlooked.

Tactics was one thing that he admired about the Israeli Defense Forces. The Six Day War was evidence of such wise thinking.

Combat skills were another. Whether ranged or melee, these desert warriors could very well put up a fight.

He wanted to learn them. It was his goal since the excuse for a father he had found himself in a cramped jail cell and, four days later, a blade up his throat. It was his purpose in life since the torture began with the other kids at the orphanage. It was the reason he supported the armed forces.

And now that he had gone through their training, their lectures, and their ordination ceremonies (_hazing rituals_); he simply wanted to start killing someone.

He didn't know why he had an urge to do harm. According to his psychiatrist, it stemmed from the childhood his dad gave him. The inability to fight back when unjust punishment was dealt fueled the machine that developed such bloodlust.

The Hungarian didn't give a shit about any of that. All he knew was that he was ready to go outside—he was ready for the big thing. But his superiors thought otherwise.

They moved him to clerk duty—a job that he was beginning to love. Either it was plain laziness or he was just being put down because of his country of origin.

He began to decline favors more often. At first, he was ready to do whatever assignment was put on his list. But the weeks went by and he began to turn them down. Then he made reasons. And more postponed chores. They were piling up and his superiors didn't like it. He procrastinated a lot and almost yanked a fellow desk boy into the mess he was making.

As hammers embedded the ink on the paper, the same officer came by. He looked at him with contempt.

"Hey, big guy wants you," he spat.

The hammers stopped flying. He stared at the older man looming over him.

"Don't ask. Just go."

His voice was blunt and sounded somewhat upset. Still, he stood up and headed to the office up the aisle. Usually, when the big guy wanted to see him, it was about his negative work habits. And the boys who were sent to tell him this were in a state of jubilee clearly because of their desire to see him get yelled at.

However, this felt different.

He opened the door and took a seat before the higher authority.

It didn't take long for him to smile when the he broke the news to him. _Finally! Oh, thank God, I've been waiting for this for a long time._

He'll be greeting Hezbollah with lead.

* * *

><p>Zoey cuddled herself on the boat's deck. Looking out into the open sea that lay under the bridge they struggled with, she found it difficult to go through with what Bill had planned. Especially with the recent "funeral" they gave him—dropping him off the side of the bridge that led to open water—it felt her peace of mind float miles away without any hope of getting it back.<p>

Bill was the main reason she kept on fighting. He was the one who found her when she couldn't take it anymore. He became someone she could relate to. He looked over her like he did Francis and Louis as his own. How they managed to survive for this long was because of his leadership and will to survive.

Buoyancy rocked her gently and the wind sang her its lullaby. She did need some more sleep. Three hours wasn't enough.

Immediately following his sacrifice, four other survivors came along in a blue race car. They wanted to get to the other side—even though they lost one of their own to raise it up. It took a lot of effort to convince Francis, who had already gone through his grief, to go for it. Although two votes out of three was enough to decide their fate.

It was a hell of a night as they covered them while they filled up the generator and got the engine running again. One of them seemed to take a liking to her. She liked him too.

He staggered when he called out to her up on the bridge. Then he whispered to one of his buddies who gave her warm greetings. That guy in the yellow shirt would stay in her head. At least it would entertain her thoughts and keep her from falling into depression.

But something big hit her hard—she, nor Francis or Louis, ever bothered to warn them of what the military was really doing with people like them. _They're immune. Carriers._ The scars on their skin were definitely from the Infected and it was astounding that they hadn't turned.

Still, she remembered Bill's words.

_"We look after our own."_

They numbly sent them to the (_gas chambers_) concentration camps.

_"We look after our own."_

The words were louder now.

_"We look after our own."_

She muted that sentence. She argued with him on that. They had a bitter disagreement when he didn't let that scientist get in. She reached out her hand and he stretched his. But the tongue got to him first and dragged him into the abyss that was the Infected.

Guilt shrouded her as she remembered those times. Moments that clawed at her heart and questioned her sense of morality.

And then came that guy. He was kind enough to help Francis with Bill's body. She looked at the man with the travel bag who stood a few feet away from the boat. He caught her eyes. His gaze seemed emotionless despite his nearly muted expressions of condolence. She quickly fixated them away. _What about him? If he tags along, should we take him in as our own?_

She heard footsteps and turned to see Francis helping Louis aboard. Zoey stood up and made room for them to pass. The two survivors settled below deck suddenly complaining about the dead guy inside. She went below.

"Zoey, could you help me out here. We gotta get rid of this dead weight."

Louis still felt the electrifying jolts on his arm and leg. They kept him from being useful for the time-being. He saw himself as more of the problem than the solution. And it sucked like a computer crashing at the most vital part of the program.

There was a splash. Francis went back inside to wipe his hands clean. The blood was moist and sticky. Zoey didn't seem to bother as she looked into the water and outward to the horizon. The weather seemed good.

Then her attention turned to the figure standing on the beach. The water licked his shoes. He was looking at the boat.

"Hey," she greeted. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he replied in an accent that was close to British. He flicked a finger at the boat. "Sailing out, eh? Away from this zombie apocalypse?"

She stifled a laugh. "Yeah. It was Bill's idea."

"The old man in uniform."

"Yep."

Her voice wobbled. The man bowed briefly. "So where're you headed?"

"The Keys."

"Nice place to go."

Zoey felt the urge to accost him. _No._ She struggled with it. _God, no. _It grew stronger the more she tried to suppress it. _He is not one of our own! Leave him to himself._ Her conscience slapped her in the face. _You sent four people to their deaths. Do want him to go too? And besides, he's all by himself. Can he hold out on his own against a Tank let alone a Hunter?_

Her grip tightened on the railing. Then she relaxed aloof.

"Do you want to tag along?" she asked. _Are you kidding me? What the hell are you thinking, girl? He's probably going to be dead weight._

The man's eyes widened at the invitation. He was, of course, looking for a way out of this place.

"Unless you want to go to the military." _That's what I'm talking about._

He laughed. "I _was_ the military. And I know without a doubt what they're going to do to me when I get there."

Zoey was taken aback by his reply. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him. She didn't expect him to have a military background.

"So you wore a gas mask?"

"Right around when the Green Flu started spreading. I was AWOL way before the first infection."

_Come to think of it, the military practically doesn't care about AWOL troops._ "When was that?"

"About six months ago or so, I guess. I plain forgot."

Francis came out and felt slightly amused by their conversation.

"You nearly hooked up with that hick last night. And now, you're looking forward to starting another one with this guy," he teased.

"Explain to me why you kept on staring at—what's her name again—Rochelle," she altercated wiping the smile clean off the biker's face. Then she turned to the man a few feet beyond the boat. "Don't mind him. He's just being an ass."

Francis glared at her. "Are you telling me that he's gonna be tagging along?"

Zoey looked back at him. A solid 'yes' left her lips.

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Look, he's alone. He can't fend off any of the Special Infected without any help. If we leave him here and he walks off, he'll probably be dead from a Hunter attack."

"Just look at him. He's got pecs. He can manage his own. Besides, I picked up what he said about being in the military once."

"He has a travel bag with him. He's gathered supplies that we can add."

"You miss Bill, don't you?" At that, the biker's voice collapsed into a tone of mild worry.

"Francis… please," she staggered. Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose as her head bowed. "Don't start… don't start, alright?"

"I think it's best if I'd rather not tag along," the man on the beach interjected.

Zoey felt both joy and sadness. Francis couldn't hide his smile.

"Please, come along," Louis voice rang from behind them. Francis turned with anger towards the analyst who supported himself on the entryway to the lower deck. The brightness of his face mirrored his optimism and high spirits for the man.

Zoey lightened up. _Thanks, Louis._

The analyst saw this and winked back at her. "We wondered if you could help us steer this boat."

"Hey! I can drive this—"

"Francis, it's not like a car that you can just hotwire from underneath the steering wheel."

The college student did have a point. He sheepishly reasoned out with her about his experiences with cops but she didn't buy it. Zoey wanted the stranger aboard.

"I did have experience managing smaller vessels than this but I guess I could be your captain for now," he replied.

Zoey and Louis grinned in success. Francis rubbed his forehead in defeat. There was something about this guy that he didn't like much more than the asshole in the white suit (_what's his name again?_) last night. He was going to have to stick to it for the whole trip.

* * *

><p>It didn't take long for the new addition to their group to bring the sailboat to life. With the engine humming and the wheel in seafaring hands, the trip wasn't going to be much of a challenge. Still, there was the threat of the weather. The Green Flu added a slight change in the climate due to the sudden shift in the pollution rates.<p>

"Sorry for being rude awhile back. Finding the body was quite a stir that we forgot to introduce ourselves—"

"You're Zoey, vest-guy is Francis, and the wounded one is Louis."

She was surprised at how he was able to identify who they were albeit with a lack of polity in it. "Wow, that's fast."

"I'm Paul," the man replied as if he read her mind.

"Thanks for helping us out."

Paul turned his head to meet her smile. He beamed at her in response. "It's what I could do to help. After all, I haven't seen anyone who didn't turn since last week."

He heard her chortle. "I'm guessing the guys who saved your asses weren't immune."

"I had to shoot the pilot."

Paul shrugged. "I had to shoot a goddamn truck-full."

Zoey was amazed at how he easily related with her anecdotes. Not only that, she managed to find comfort in a man who seemed to take Bill's place in the group. _But he's not part of the family._

_Not just yet._

* * *

><p>They talked about a lot of things; Louis' injuries, Zoey's pre-zombie college life, horror movies, and all the things Francis hates. Paul laughed at that last bit.<p>

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, man. In the past week that we've been together, there wasn't a single thing he didn't hate… well, except the army and of course, his vest."

"The army and his vest?"

"The army was short-lived, however. I'm sure you know why."

"But the vest? So he never takes it off?"

"Never. I mean, I took off my jacket a few times but he kept it on; probably since this whole ordeal began."

"So you're saying he wore that unwashed leather calico for two weeks?"

"Probably more."

"Damn. And you guys haven't had a bath since the first infection."

"Come to think of it, I'm looking forward to getting a bath once we get there."

"Well, I'm sure _he_ wouldn't mind the long shower." Paul's voice softened to that of a whisper. "After all, you did say that he was puked on the most by those bloated bile sacks."

"Excuse me?" Francis' irate voice interjected.

Zoey's giggles refused to be silenced. Paul was smiling.

"Hey, what's that?" Immediately, the biker's tone was that of concern.

Paul squinted his eyes to see what was on the horizon. Zoey cupped her mouth by the time she what was coming.

"Hold on to something, we got a storm heading our way," the Hungarian ordered.

_So much for a safe trip._


End file.
